I stared at the floor.
Then something even colder occurred to me.
“If my mother knew my name was on the deed, why has she spent nine years telling everyone this is her house?”
Ms. Farrow was quiet.
“I think that’s a question you should ask her.”
The call ended shortly afterward.
I remained in the hallway for several minutes.
Then my phone buzzed.
An email.
Subject: Recorded Deed — Larkin Street Property
I opened the attachment.
The first page was filled with legal language.
Then I saw it.
GRANTEE: MICHELLE DUNN
Below it:
GRANTEE: EMILY DUNN, minor child
My daughter’s name.
Her name had been there since she was seven.
I kept scrolling.
The signatures appeared near the bottom.
My mother’s signature.
The closing attorney’s signature.
And mine.
My signature was shaky.
I remembered that day.
I remembered crying.
I remembered my divorce.
I remembered my mother holding my hand.
“Don’t worry, Michelle. I’m doing this for all of us.”
I had thought she meant putting the house in her name because my credit was damaged.
But apparently, she had done something very different.
I printed the deed.
Then I printed every mortgage statement I had saved.
For nine years, I had kept them in a folder because my mother always told me that if I ever needed proof of payments, I should keep everything.
I had never asked why.
Now I knew.
There were 108 monthly payments.
$1,412 each.
I pulled out my calculator.
$1,412 × 108.
$152,496.
I stared at the number.
More than $150,000.
I had paid it while believing I was simply helping my mother.
And now my brother wanted me out because he thought I’d been living there for free.
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
